


A Cursed Breed

by tofansesmuna



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson, Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson (Broadway Cast) Actor RPF
Genre: Count of Monte Cristo AU, M/M, only slight connor/miguel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 07:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17935814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofansesmuna/pseuds/tofansesmuna
Summary: “You have made good of my death, Baron Hansen,” said Murphy, tacking on the title almost mockingly. “And I mean that sincerely.”Set on finding and destroying the individuals responsible for his erasure, Connor Murphy seeks help in the one man who benefitted the most from his absence.___________________________the Count of Monte Cristo au nobody asked for





	A Cursed Breed

Under the black blanketed sky, a hollow clanging could be heard on this side of the island. On an otherwise soundless night, this clockwork disturbance drew little attention except for the lone guard who shouted an admonishment at the end of the hall. The clanging stopped. After a moment, however, the proponent of the sound began again. The guard, fairly new and not used to handling disobedience, shouted again in a slightly wavering voice. Once again, the sound halted only to pick up a moment later. 

 

The guard looked around as if a superior would appear to take over. Unable to conjure one, he started walking with great hesitance toward the source of the sound. He could not tell if the growing volume was due to closing distance, or if the maker himself was pounding with increasing intensity. As he passed, some prisoners who had been risen from sleep turned their heads to watch him pass, which the guard tried very hard to ignore. Finally, as the clanging reached an almost earsplitting volume, the guard’s steps faltered as he turned to look into the last cell on the left, and the clanging ceased immediately. The sudden silence left the young guard feeling extremely uneasy, even more so when he took a final step to face the inside of the cell and was greeted with an unusual sight. 

 

Like every cell in this wing, a miniscule window cut a slit into the stone wall about a foot and a half wide and four inches tall, set high in the wall so that it lined up with the ceiling, just allowing for a glance at the ground outside the prison and a drop of sunlight during the day. Really, it more resembled a mail slot than a window. Tonight, though, the nearly full moon sent a slanted block of white light deep into the cell - not far enough to reach the door, but far reaching enough to cast a ghostly wash over the figure sat directly beneath the window. Propped up against the wall, the figure’s legs spread out in a soft bend, his pale, lengthy arms hung outstretched on either side of him. In his right hand, the guard saw a dingy metal mug - the single container issued to every prisoner. The prisoner’s fingers circled almost limply around it, as if he had fallen asleep while holding it. 

 

The delicate, open posture, the otherworldly light from above that almost set the man’s white skin glowing; despite the wretchedness of the subject, the vignette he created recalled to the young guard’s mind an image of one on the cross. 

 

This quiet realization filled him with momentary shame. He did not know the name of this particular prisoner, but the jaunts and whispers that followed his initiation gave him the impression that the inhabitant at the end of the hall was less man than animal. 

 

To compare the Lord to...whatever this man was...would be sacrilegious. 

 

Still, the bow of the man’s head spoke of an extreme resignation and humility that remained reserved to the faces of the shamed or saved. 

 

“Number 72,” the guard barked out, pleased at how uncaring he sounded. “You will not make that sound again.” The man did not give any indication that he knew the guard was even present. Taking his silence as passive acceptance, the guard turned and started back towards his post. Suddenly, a clang, sharp and loud, reverberated around the hallway. 

 

The guard immediately swung back around toward the man. 

 

“Number 72!” He shouted, “Did I not just tell you to stop that?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “If you make that sound again, you will be punished. Am I understood?” The man remained motionless. 

 

“Number 72, I said: am I understood?” From further down the wing, he thought he heard a faint snicker. The guard’s face flushed. 

 

“Number 72 I asked you a question!” The man began to raise his right arm so slowly, it appeared as though it were being pulled by a puppeteer’s string rather than his own will. The guard waited. After a moment, the man swung his arm down and struck the floor. With his grip still loose, though, it rang out as more of an uneven, metallic clattering. No matter. 

 

The guard pulled his key ring from his belt and fumbled until he found the correct one. Fueled by rising anger and embarrassment, he did not hesitate as he threw the door open and gripped his nightstick. “Number 72, last chance,” he said with barely contained rage, “Cease that noise right now.” The man responded by striking the floor in three quick motions. Needing no further excuse, the guard stalked forward and yanked the prisoner up by the arm, poised his nightstick in the air. But the guard did not see the sudden animation in which a pale hand wrapped around the mug in a tight grip, or raised and fell with magnificent force to deliver one swift blow to the guard’s head, all without ever lifting his own. 

 

The guard stumbled to the ground as he cried out. In contrast, the prisoner stood upright for another moment, until the guard began scrabbling to get up. Then the man readjusted his grip, and swung his arm down again and again in brutal, unfaltering succession. He did not stop until the guard failed to twitch. 

 

After one last cursory check for life, the man hoisted the former guard under his arms and dragged him into the hallway, then continued dragging him until they were more than halfway down the hallway in front of a completely different cell. By now, almost all of his fellow inmates had been awakened by the struggle and were jeering at him, one throwing out a ‘whack him again!’ The man paid no attention. He was occupying himself with getting the guard’s jacket off of his body before too much blood could leak onto it. Finally, he managed to wrangle it off of the guard’s torso, and did not even notice when the guard fell back, flailing from force and hit the ground with a slap. From within the cell the man had brought the body to came a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a snort. 

 

“Shut up,” hissed the man. He had gotten the guard’s jacket buttoned over his tattered shirt and was now working to tuck his shoulder length hair into the matching hat. There was one lock that kept refusing to be trapped neatly by his efforts, and after his third attempt he yelled out a curse and threw the hat to the ground. 

 

“Calm down,” a voice said from inside the cell. “Let me do it.” Fuming, the man shoved the hat between the bars into the waiting hands of a just emerged figure. He did not have the same lanky frame as the escaped prisoner; he was short and muscular, with much darker skin that - despite its obvious melanin - looked washed out in the barely there moonlight. 

 

“Come here,” he said. The escaped prisoner took two angry, jerking steps until he stood directly in front of him. “Turn around.” He followed the other prisoner’s instructions, and felt surprisingly nimble hands gather the hair into a single knot at the top of his head before placing the hat snugly over it. He turned around to face the other prisoner, who grinned when he saw him. 

 

“You look good.” 

 

“I’ll take your word for it.” The escaped prisoner retorted. He turned away from the cell to locate the set of keys on the former guard’s body. With some difficulty, a few false tries and more angry cursing, he finally found the right key that let the cell door swing open. “Ah!” The now free prisoner gasped. He stepped forward and gave each cheek of his companion’s a quick peck, which the other pretended to wipe off while grumbling. 

 

“Let us proceed,” said the first prisoner. With the other following closely behind him, he stalked down the hall, unlocking the door to each cell. When released, a few surged forward to try and take the keys, but the second prisoner quickly intervened and deterred these newly released prisoners with a ferocity that contradicted his seemingly amiable nature. As they went, voices rose with joy and malice, and by the time they reached the end of the hall, the wing was filled with a darkly satisfying chaos. 

 

The two grinned at each other. “Come,” said the second.

 

They flew up the flight of stairs at the end of the hall until they reached the first floor. 

 

They did not try to quiet their footsteps as they emerged from the darkness panting and flurried-looking. Instantly, a voice shouted out, “Halt! What is it?” An officer with a thick mustache approached them from the front door post. The second burst forth breathlessly, “There has been a break on the second floor!”

 

The officer’s expressionless, mustachioed face set the first prisoner on edge. His flat eyes flicked to the second prisoner’s open face and considered him. 

 

“You do not resemble a frenchman, private.” 

 

“I am a Catalan, Sir. Purebred.” 

 

“Figures,” the officer mumbled under his breath. “Where is your uniform?”

 

“A prisoner knocked me out and took it off of me!”

 

“I can confirm this,” interjected the first prisoner, “I was switching shifts with one of the guards posted on the third floor, and as I was walking down the stairs I heard a cry. When I went to investigate, the prisoner in question attempted to assault me as well. Luckily, I was able to get the both of us out of the way of danger, but not before he stole my keys.” Just as he said this, a roar of multiple voices came from down the stairs. 

 

“Oh Lord,” the second prisoner murmured. “He must have let the others out!” Any semblance of doubt in the superior officer’s eyes drained away at this statement.

He turned to the first prisoner, “You: get your fellow officer to safety, then inform the tower of what has happened and request reinforcement.” 

 

Without hesitation, the first prisoner slipped into a salute worthy of a seasoned military man. 

 

“Yes, Sir!” As the two rushed away, the superior officer was barking orders at the other officers posted on that floor. They only had to keep up their concerned faces as far as the door. Beyond that, the two had no resistance. The only worrisome instance occurred at the shore, when an officer patrolling the edge of the island asked what they were doing with a boat. The first’s eye twitched from nerves, but his companion had trained him for this part. He explained that a violent prisoner had escaped and that the Private out of uniform was in need of immediate medical attention. At this, said Private let out a particularly dramatic moan, and the first prisoner had to struggle not to break his limbs. 

 

“Do you need help getting to the mainland? I can call for a replacement,” offered the officer. The first shook his head and continued preparing the boat as if he would not even consider it, “No need,” he said nonchalantly, “I may not look like it, but I was raised on water. I could swim eighty leagues before drowning. Besides,” he cast a long glance back at the prison to divert the officer’s attention, “They need all the help they can get. I let the tower know to send reinforcements, but until they arrive it’s just whoever was here on night shift against an entire floor of loose criminals.” A choked cry broke out of the second prisoner’s throat, drawing gaze of both the first prisoner and the officer who appeared similarly alarmed, although for different reasons. 

 

“Clèmente, please, please,” he sounded as though he were deep in the throes of a severe brain injury. He gripped the side of his head and made sure to let the officer see the blood drip down his fingers. The first picked up the pace on his untying the knot, then swiftly hopped down into the bed of the boat, taking hold of the oars. “Don’t worry,” he said in a slightly panicked voice, “We’ll get there soon.” He bade the officer a hasty goodbye then set off at a strong pace toward the mainland. No lantern to light their way, so there was no chance of anyone on shore seeing the injured Private sit up and take hold of the second pair of oars once they were an adequate distance offshore. 

 

“How was I, ‘Clèmente’?” He asked, voice filled with giddiness. 

 

“I almost believed you myself, ‘Private,’” the first said in sardonic tone to try and hide his genuine excitement. The second laughed loudly and the first prisoner allowed a smile to creep onto his face. 

 

It was a complete lie to say that he was raised on the water, but at least one of them knew the sea like a mother. The second prisoner steered them with instinctual ease to a little known spot a bit of a ways from the mainland - a small, uninhabited piece of rock of which the second claimed had no name, but was the perfect spot for “forbidden lovers” and “wretched castaways.” 

 

_ Or both,  _ thought the first. 

 

That night, they celebrated. On that island which was empty of champagne but full of promise, he and his companion christened their haven and made a toast to their individual futures. They had a plan. Once they made it to shore, they would separate. Most likely never see each other again. Even so, this night - this  _ freedom  _ \- was their’s and their’s alone to consume. 

 

“I’ll go to Spain,” said Miguel. “Start a fishing business or some other equally boring venture. Maybe to keep things interesting I’ll smuggle on the side.” Connor knew this. He had heard it a thousand times before. Hearing it again made him want to shoot something. 

 

Miguel turned inward toward him. They lay on the side of the island opposite from where they had come from; a vain attempt at protection which they both knew would not suffice for very long. They had to leave soon, if they wanted to beat the news of the two prisoners’ escape back to mainland. 

 

“What about you?” Miguel asked, low and suggestive of nothing. Miguel already knew this, too. He had listened to just as much of Connor’s ranting as Connor had of his daydreaming. It had really been the only way of keeping their sanity, to imagine what came afterwards. Or maybe it accelerated their loss of it. Either way, Miguel was much better at listening and much more willing to do so, which Connor was grateful for. 

 

He took a slow, deep inhale and let it out at measured pace. He pulled Miguel a little closer by the waist and looked sleepily up into the bright heavens like he already knew what it meant to feel at peace. In a calm, matter-of-fact voice, he declared: 

 

“I am going to get revenge.” 

 


End file.
